Chapter 2 - THE OBSTETRICIAN AND THE FEDS: WHY DOCTOR ELIZABETH VANCE BROUGHT MORE THAN A STETHOSCOPE
Within twenty minutes of my call, Dr. Elizabeth Vance’s sleek black sedan pulled up our private gravel driveway, headlights cutting through the lashing rain.
Elizabeth wasn't just an elite OB-GYN; she was a former Lieutenant Colonel in the Army Medical Corps who had patched up wounded operators in combat zones before trading her camouflage for a high-end private practice in Arlington.
She stepped onto the porch carrying her heavy medical bag, her eyes sharp and assessing as she took in the ruined front steps and the heavy storm door.
I opened the door before she could knock.
“Victoria,” Elizabeth said, her voice dropping into professional command mode immediately. “What happened?”
“Domestic violence. Severe contusions on the ribs and face. She’s seven months pregnant, and she ran three blocks through the storm barefoot,” I reported in rapid-fire succession, stepping aside to let her pass.
Elizabeth didn't blink. She strode straight into the living room where Clara sat wrapped in cashmere, whimpering quietly.
“Clara, sweet girl, look at me,” Elizabeth instructed gently, kneeling beside the sofa. “I’m going to check you and your little one. You’re safe here. Your mother and I are going to take care of you.”
For the next forty-five minutes, the living room transformed into a quiet, efficient medical assessment room.
Elizabeth checked Clara’s vital signs, used a handheld Doppler to monitor the robust, galloping heartbeat of the baby, and gently palpated Clara’s bruised ribs and swollen knee.
Finally, she straightened up, letting out a soft sigh of relief.
“The baby is resilient, Victoria,” Elizabeth said, looking over at me. “Strong heartbeat, no signs of acute placental abruption or premature contractions. But she’s severely dehydrated, bruised across her ribcage, and suffering from acute shock. I’m giving her a mild sedative and an IV saline drip. She needs absolute rest for the next forty-eight hours.”
“Can she be moved?” I asked.
“Not safely. Not unless you want to risk sending her into early labor,” Elizabeth replied firmly.
I walked Elizabeth to the front door, slipping a heavy manila folder into her leather bag.
“Deliver that second envelope to Director Miller at FBI Field Office Washington before 5:00 AM,” I instructed quietly. “Tell him phase one of Operation Iron Gavel is authorized for immediate execution at sunrise.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed with fierce, militant understanding. “Consider it done, Judge. Dominic Ward has no idea what’s about to land on his head.”
As Elizabeth’s car disappeared down the driveway, my phone buzzed again.
Another text message from Dominic.
“Tick-tock, Victoria. If Clara isn’t back in her bed by 2:00 AM, I’m sending my men to collect her. Don't test me.”
I looked at the clock on the wall.
1:15 AM.
Forty-five minutes.
May you like
I walked back to my library, sat down behind my heavy oak desk, opened my secure judicial terminal, and typed a single, two-word email to the United States Marshal Service:
“Execute early.”
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